First Christmas & The Ultimatum REVISED
by SeenaC
Summary: John's record of his first Christmas on Baker Street.  Now revised to take into account events from "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch". Private journal entries on life in 221B Baker Street. Complete - narrative continued in "The Enemy of My Enemy"
1. First Christmas

A/N: This is a revision of "First Christmas" which became necessary due to the events that occurred in "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch." The only significant changes have to do with the Christmas Eve service.

Apologies to my readers. This was all because I altered my original timeline of events in John & Sherlock's relationship.

Christmas & what came of it

It's actually late January now, and I haven't made any of these personal (password protected and unpublished) updates for awhile. I've been busy with work, and Sarah, and with helping Sherlock now and again. It's hard to believe that I've lived on Baker Street almost a year now. There hasn't been any major cases for awhile though, it's been fairly quiet since the Russian Mafia case (the one I call "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch" but never put on the blog), just a lot of little cases that Sherlock is often able to solve without even leaving the flat after he hears the details. But for his sake, I'm glad to see him keeping busy. As I mentioned, I'm still seeing Sarah; I definitely love her and we have such a good time together…but more on that later.

I just wanted to back up to Christmas because it was, obviously, my first Christmas on Baker Street and with Sarah.

All through December I had been puzzling over what to give Sherlock and Sarah. I hadn't discussed exchanging gifts at all, but I knew I wanted to get them each something. The problem was what? As anyone could imagine, Sherlock's a bit difficult to shop for. I was also fretting over what to do for Sarah, as money is still a bit tight for me.

I was really wracking my brains and starting to stress out about it when Christmas was just one week away. I was flipping through the paper, looking for ideas while Sherlock was playing his violin. I didn't know what piece it was, but it was lovely. Gradually, the music sucked me in and eventually I put down the paper.

"That was beautiful, what was that?" I asked when he stopped.

"A few of Mendelssohn's _Lieder_. You are a generous audience. But I wouldn't want to be compared against a professional."

That's when I had THE IDEA. It seemed so obvious I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I gathered up the paper, looked through it, but couldn't find what I was looking for.

Sherlock had begun playing another piece, so I slipped out to my room to surf the internet in privacy. I was successful and extremely pleased with myself. Not only had I come up with what I thought was a great idea for Sherlock, but also (with modification) the same gift could also be given to Sarah.

The morning of Christmas Eve came, and over breakfast Sherlock suddenly asked me if I was free that evening. "Yes, I am, why?"

"Well, I was planning on going to church this evening; I always do on Christmas Eve. I like to attend the Festival of 9 Lessons and Carols. It's the one tradition from my childhood that I still hang on to. Plus, it has the added benefit of getting me out of going to Mycroft's for the evening. He can't really argue with me putting God in front of him. Would you like to come with me?"

I was a little stunned at first. Sherlock seemed like the last person in the world that would want to go to church. But then I realized the meaning of his words: _the one tradition of my childhood that I still hang on to._ Of course. The memory of what I had recently learned about Sherlock's family was still very fresh. My heart seemed determined to climb up into my throat. Sherlock was asking me to share in what had to be very complicated (to say the least) childhood memories. This was totally unexpected. But, as he had kept his tone very casual, I followed his lead.

"Sure, it sounds nice. Sarah is going to be with her family tonight. We were going to see each other tomorrow, so let's go!"

That evening saw us in St. Mary's. I hadn't been to church in years.

Sherlock had seemed a little tense and withdrawn on the way over. He steered us over to the back of the church. Once the service began he seemed to gradually relax. Evidently he had the entire service memorized, his lips moved not just along with the carols but with the scripture readings as well. He appeared to forget that I was even there. I spent most of the time making sure that I didn't pay too much attention to him. It felt a little awkward, I didn't want to intrude on his privacy, but on the other hand he had asked me to come with him.

When the service ended, he turned and smiled at me with slightly reddened eyes.

"Happy Christmas John."

"Happy Christmas."

We made our way through the crowd and back out for a cab. It was a clear night, crisp and cold, with the bright winter stars snapping in the sky. During the cab ride home Sherlock was silent, looking out the window. I felt like I should say something, but I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Sherlock, thanks for asking me to come with you tonight," I finally said.

He turned and looked at me for a long moment, his face was unreadable. "Thanks for coming," he eventually replied, and turned back to the window. After a pause he added, "the Christmas I was ten was the last year we went as a family."

If he had been any other friend or family member I would have reached over and given him a hug. But to do that to _Sherlock Holmes_ seemed like too much of an imposition. So instead I reached over and gave his shoulder something between a pat and a rub. To my great surprise he reached up and placed his gloved hand over mine for a second before returning it to his coat pocket.

After we got back and had some hot tea brewing Sherlock said, "I avoid him Christmas Eve, but there's no avoiding Christmas dinner with Mycroft tomorrow. So I was thinking I would give you your present now."

"Oh!"

"Hang on just a minute and I'll get it."

While he was occupied, I ran to my room and got his.

He came out of his room carrying a fairly good-sized box. "It's really not much of a gift," he said. "I mean, in a way, it's downright self-serving. But I hope you will accept it just the same."

"OK, well, here is yours." I handed him a sealed envelope.

"I'm not opening this until you open yours."

"All right."

I opened the box and discovered a collection of books. I lifted the first one, a slim volume titled: _Trails of Tobacco: How to Identify 140 Varieties of Cigarette, Cigar, and Pipe Ash._ It was by Sherlock.

"Sherlock! I didn't know you were an author!"

"Oh, I can assure you I've never hit the bestseller lists, but I have published a few minor pieces in my field." He looked pleased by my reaction.

I looked through the rest of the box which he said contained the complete published works of Sherlock Holmes. They were bound and published by various universities.

"This is amazing! I can't wait to read them," I said.

"Well, keep in mind that they are technical pieces, intended for specialists. They aren't exactly meant to be read for pleasure." But behind the protests, he had a satisfied smile.

"Open one up," he prodded.

I opened one titled _The Book of Life_ (only Sherlock would have the audacity to use such a title, I thought) and found a written dedication: _To my friend John with warmest regards, Sherlock_. A fairly standard inscription, but coming from Sherlock, who had previously claimed to have no heart and no friends, I understood the significance of the words. A lump formed in my throat.

"Thanks, Sherlock. That's really…I'll treasure them forever." I cleared my throat. "OK, open yours now."

He opened the envelope and then opened the enclosed card. He grasped the tickets inside and read out loud what I had written in the card: "_I suggest that two people who like each other go out and have fun - but it's not a date._" He chuckled, looked at the tickets and said, " Touché and thank you. Tickets to the London Symphony Orchestra! I haven't been for years. It will be fun. Thanks John. Hmmm...Shostakovich Violin Concerto Number 1! That's a surprise." He shot me a glance, then quickly smiled. "But I'm not criticizing." He seemed anxious to make sure he didn't hurt my feelings, which showed that he has changed in the months since I've met him.

He continued, "I haven't had my evening wear out for three years, since being bribed into going to a state dinner with Mycroft. I hope it still fits."

My feeling of dismay must have shown on my face because he chuckled.

"I see Dr. John H. Watson does not own evening attire."

"I'm an army doctor, why would I? And what's wrong with my nice suit?"

"You can't attend the LSO in a business suit! I'm ashamed you would even think of it!"

How did my gift go so horribly wrong?

"Sherlock, I can't possibly afford..."

"Nonsense! I know someone who can fix you up at a _very _reasonable price, trust me. And as long as you don't gain or lose more than a stone or so, with minor alterations you'll be set for life, or at least a few decades. And, as the concert is only two weeks away, we had best try to see him as soon as possible." He was texting as he spoke.

"Sherlock! It's Christmas Eve! You can't possibly be texting your tailor!"

"I'm sending him the greetings of the season, and he doesn't have to answer if he doesn't want to."

Much to my amazement, Sherlock received a response 10 minutes later.

"We have an appointment for 9am on Boxing Day," he reported triumphantly.

I sighed my usual sigh, once again acknowledging that I had no control over the situation. I was trying not to be bitter that my gift had turned against me.

On Christmas Day I slept in late, as I had no plans to get together with anyone that morning. By the time I got up Sherlock was on his way out.

"Wish me luck with Mycroft."

"Be nice, he is your brother, after all, and it's Christmas."

"Physician, heal thyself," he quipped and then was gone. He made me feel a little ashamed, I hadn't even thought about Harry. I sent her a brief text to which she briefly responded. I felt better, but still didn't miss seeing her. Maybe next year.

At 11:30 I texted Sarah to see when she would like to get together. She was over within the hour. She showed up lugging a large hamper.

"Happy Christmas John! I've brought you Christmas brunch! I know you guys never keep anything decent to eat around here."

It was quite the feast. Somehow she managed to pack a mountain of food plus two bottles of champagne. She had also brought a large quilt. We cleared a space on the floor in front of the fireplace (the kitchen table was occupied, as usual, by one of Sherlock's experiments), took off all the furniture cushions for sitting and reclining, and had a glorious picnic.

Over the next several hours we slowly nibbled and sipped our way through the contents of the hamper while talking, laughing, and kissing. I really think it was my best Christmas ever.

About halfway through the second bottle of champagne Sarah admitted with giggles that the meal was my Christmas present.

"Oh, then let me get yours," I said, and I handed her an envelope.

She opened the card and found the tickets I had purchased for an upcoming performance of Romeo and Juliet. She squealed with delight and we rolled around on the floor for a few minutes laughing and kissing like teenagers. Then, one of us spilled our champagne, so we decided it would be safer if we just passed the bottle back and forth.

Well, I think I need hardly describe the rest of the afternoon, but I will say that we had a really fun time and a nice long nap as well.

It was probably around 7pm, and Sarah and I were curled up in our nest of cushions like a couple of kittens when I heard the front door open. I was so drowsy and comfortable that I didn't feel like moving. Sarah was sound asleep. I could hear Sherlock come up the stairs, then come into the sitting room. I still couldn't be bothered to move. I was so warm and cozy! Sherlock evidently was just standing there, probably reading the history of our day in the objects surrounding us. I had the vague idea that I wanted to ask him how the day with Mycroft went, but I just couldn't summon the energy. After a minute I heard him go into his room and softly close the door.

I drowsed off again, but at about 9pm Sarah and I both woke up again. After a lot of yawning, stretching, quiet giggling and kissing, we decided Christmas was over and we'd better clean up. A few minutes and a full trash bin later saw Sarah packed up and ready to leave. I saw her safely into a taxi, then came back upstairs. I half-expected Sherlock to emerge from his room, but he never did.

The next morning was the appointment with the tailor. On our way over I asked Sherlock how his Christmas with Mycroft went.

"Same as always. I don't want to discuss it. Although, he was a bit put out that you didn't come."

"Me? Why on earth..."

"You'll have to ask him," he said in a way that closed the discussion. After a pause he said, "I take it you and Sarah had a good time."

For a moment, the warm, happy glow of yesterday suffused me. "Oh yes we did." I realized I was grinning like an idiot. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing.

We arrived at a small tailor's shop where Sherlock was greeted with considerable warmth by the proprietor. It turns out that of course he's a former client who benefitted greatly from Sherlock's work on his behalf.

Sherlock abandoned me there, saying he had a potential client to meet, but assured me I was being left in good hands.

I tried to explain to Mr. Poole that I did not have a lot of money and was hoping to get something very cheap and not to go to much bother. My concerns were dismissed. "For you, no problem. You pay when and what you can - £5 per month - whatever!"

He proceeded to take measurements of every possible dimension of my body while I felt as if I had become the star of some bizarre version of "Pretty Woman." After that was done he told me to come back in a week for my first fitting (_first_?).

Fast forward to the night of the concert...

Sherlock and I arrived at the Barbican by taxi, and made our way to coat check. I was extremely nervous, as I had never worn formal attire before. As we checked in our coats, I started looking cautiously around at the crowd. My heart sank down into my shoes.

"Sherlock!" I hissed.

"What?"

"I don't know if anyone has told you this or not, but Queen Victoria died about 100 years ago."

"_What?_"

"And apparently the tradition of wearing evening clothes to concerts died with her!"

"What are you going on about?"

"Look! Sherlock! No one else is dressed like we are!"

"Ah, but they _wish_ they were!" He was smiling, his eyes full of mischief. I could have punched him.

"Relax," he went on, "Trust me, there will be others. You just don't see any right now. Come on, let's go find our seats."

I had to admit, as I followed him through the crowd, that he drew many admiring glances. He has a tall, slim, elegant figure anyway, and his usual air of self-assurance suited the formal clothes. I felt like a duck paddling in the wake of a swan. What really galled me is that even if the entire crowd were pointing and laughing, it still wouldn't give him a moment's concern.

Well, we found our seats, and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Sherlock was right, there were others in formal attire, although I pointed out that none of the other men in fancy dress seemed to be under the age of 90.

On the way home, Sherlock thanked me again. "This has been great fun. I had quit going to these sorts of things because people would try to strike up conversations with me. I suppose it's assumed that a person alone wants company."

When we arrived home we sat in the sitting room for a few minutes, loosening our ties and taking off our shoes.

"Well," I said, "Maybe Mycroft will start inviting _me_ to state dinners so I'll have a reason to wear this bloody thing again."

I saw Sherlock's eyes light up.

"I'm kidding Sherlock, KIDDING!"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note -

Thanks for the kind reviews and the condolences. I am still reeling a bit from the shock of losing my friend. But, the kindness shown in the reviews has prompted me to post the next episode of my project. Let me know what you think. I know it's not near the quality of what I've read by others here.

The Ultimatum

It's only been about a week since I wrote the entry on Christmas. But so much has happened and I really do need to write about it to try and make sense of it all.

As I mentioned in my Christmas journal entry, I got tickets for Sarah and I to go see Romeo and Juliet a few days after Sherlock and I had gone to the symphony. Sarah and I greatly enjoyed the show and went out for a late dinner afterward.

As we were finishing up Sarah asked me to move in with her!

I was so happy! I really do love her and we have such great fun together. We started discussing it seriously when all of a sudden she said, "Just one condition, though, you have to stop working with Sherlock."

"What?"

"If you're going to live with me, you can't keep working with Sherlock."

"I don't understand."

"John, if we're going to build a future together, I can't always be worrying about your safety."

I can't remember all the particulars of the conversation now, but that's how it started. It gradually built into quite a row, although we kept the volume low, as we were in public, and neither of us are the type to make scenes. By the end, it came down to this: I told her that if she really cared for me, she wouldn't force me to make that kind of choice. Her reply was, that if I really cared for HER, there wouldn't be a choice to make.

It became clear to us by then that we were at an impasse. We stared bleakly at each other across the table, then started planning our break-up. It's a bit of a tricky thing to break up with one's boss. We agreed that I would transfer to another surgery. She said she could make it happen quickly, and that I could take some leave time until the details were sorted out.

We finished up and left the restaurant. I hailed a cab for her. Before she got in, she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Goodbye John. I'm sure you and Sherlock will be very happy together...until one or both of you are killed." She then started to cry, got in the cab, and was gone.

I stood there, numb from shock for several moments. A few hours before, I was having a great time with my steady girlfriend of almost a year, going out, comfortable, happy, we were even going to move in together. What happened?

I pulled myself together and got a cab home. Well, I stopped on the way and picked up a bottle of scotch. The numbness was ebbing and I was starting to feel. I wasn't quite ready to feel anything yet.

I'm not much of a drinker, so I don't generally keep liquor at the flat aside from a few beers. Sherlock is almost a complete teetotaler, says he doesn't like the way alcohol clouds his brain, so I knew if I wanted to drink that I would need to stop and buy something.

When I got home, Sherlock was out. I sat at the kitchen table, which was clear for once, and started pouring.

I was nursing my third scotch and soda when Sherlock came home and found me.

"What's this?" he asked, clearly surprised.

"Sarah and I broke up."

"Oh...What happened?"

I wasn't in any mood to tell the whole truth of the matter, his ego didn't need to know I'd chosen him over Sarah. But I was still sober enough to know he would probably see through a lie.

"We...came to the conclusion that our relationship had no future."

He gave me one of his searching stares, waiting for me to say more or to maybe convey more information non-verbally. I kept my mouth resolutely shut and stared back. For the first time ever, he was the first to look away.

"So what's this for, then?" he asked, gesturing towards the bottle.

"Because it _HURTS_, Sherlock! Sometimes rational decisions come with an emotional cost!" Anger started to bubble inside of me.

"Oh...I'm sorry."

"Oh don't pretend sympathy, Sherlock. I know you don't care. In fact, you never liked her so you're probably chuffed about it," I snapped at him.

His face went white. "Unfair, John. Unfair! You think that I take pleasure in your pain?" He paused for a moment, then said in a bit of a strangled voice, "One of the things I love you for is that you always assume the best about me... rather than the worst...like everyone else." He then spun around, went to his room and slammed the door shut.

Oh dear God in heaven, I prayed with my head on the table, not _this_, not _now_. I tossed back the rest of the drink I had poured, then closed the bottle.

Three scotches in succession is fairly heavy drinking for me, so I rather unsteadily made my way to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately, but woke up several hours later with a headache and unable to go back to sleep. I laid there, fretting about both Sarah and Sherlock, my job, my future, well, pretty much everything. I couldn't even begin to make sense out of what had happened to me. As dawn was breaking, I finally fell asleep again.

Sherlock and I orbited each other in uneasy silence for a few days. I knew that I ought to apologize, but I was still angry. I was working through the grief of losing Sarah, and with her, the option of a "normal" life (at least for the time being). I had chosen an extraordinary (some would say bizarre) life instead, but every choice comes with a loss, and this one stung. I was blaming Sherlock for it, even though I had chosen him.

I spent my days out, coming home late in the evening. Each night I could hear Sherlock's violin through the windows as I came to the front door, but by the time I reached the flat he would be in his room again. This was very unusual behavior for him, as previously when we would have disagreements he always pouted and sulked quite visibly in the sitting room. Either this time he was very angry, or very hurt, or maybe both. Whatever it was, I wasn't prepared to deal with it.

After a few days of this Sarah called me with my new employment information. I was thankful as the last few days alone with my worries were really starting to wear on me. I wrote the new location and my new schedule on the dry erase board in the kitchen for Sherlock. As I was doing that, I decided that it was time, or past time, to apologize.

After a few hours, in the mid-afternoon, he came in. He looked at me quizzically as he took off his coat.

"Sherlock, could you come here a minute, please?"

He hesitated a moment, but came over and sat down.

" I need to apologize to you. I was unfair, and unkind. I was hurting, and angry, and I took it out on you...I hope you will forgive me."

"Certainly John, of course." He waved his hand dismissively.

He continued, "I'm sorry as well if I've caused you pain. I can't tell you what it means to me, that you would choose me over Sarah."

"What? You KNEW?"

"Of course I knew. If you had broken up for any _other_ reason, you would have told me straight out what it was, not the vague "no future" rubbish answer you tried. Plus, it was the only explanation for why you were so angry with me."

I sighed my usual sigh of resignation. I still haven't adjusted to not having any private thoughts or feelings.

Sherlock chuckled. "Here, I have something that might cheer you up."

He dashed into his room and came back with his violin.

"Let me play you something new...well, new for me...that I've been practicing. It's actually a piece better played by a full orchestra, but you'll get the idea."

He then played a piece that I found deeply moving. It's impossible to adequately describe any music in words, but it was a piece that was beautiful, sad, and uplifting all at once. By the end I had a large lump in my throat. Somehow it seemed to capture loss and heartache while honoring hope and love.

Unable to speak at first, I just looked at him.

"I thought you would like it. I've been working hard on it for you." He looked very pleased with himself.

"What was that?"

"One of Elgar's _Enigma Variations_ called '_Nimrod_' Elgar said that each _Variation _ was inspired by one of his friends or lovers. This one reminds me of you: heroic, but with warmth and sweetness, and a little tragic."

"It was beautiful."

"Thank you, you're my favorite audience, you're so uncritical! And now I have something even better." He was looking at his phone.

"What's that?"

"Lestrade wants to see us down at Scotland Yard. He seems impatient, which is promising. Will you come?"

"Always."

That was 5 days ago and life has settled back down. The case Lestrade called about turned out to be a bit of a dud. Sherlock told him the culprit after reading the case notes. I'm at the new clinic and getting along there just fine. I still miss Sarah terribly and of course I have moments when I question the choice I made.

Sherlock has been playing his violin every night, finishing with Elgar's "Nimrod". I'm not sure if he's playing for himself, or if he thinks it cheers me up. I do find it moving that he went to the effort, apparently while I was angry with him, to find some way of reaching out to me. He really has changed a great deal since we started living together. I researched the piece a little bit, and found that it's often used on Remembrance Day and on other occasions to memorialize fallen British soldiers. Maybe that's another reason why it reminded Sherlock of me. No matter what the reason, it's an honor to be associated with such a beautiful piece.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I really struggled over this piece - rewriting it a bunch of times. It's a conversation that I felt Sherlock and John really needed to have, but I had a dickens of a time writing it.

So, I'd love feedback on how any of you think this little project is going...

Journal entry

I'm writing this private journal entry in order to record and hopefully better understand the conversation Sherlock and I had just now.

I awoke about 2:30 from a war-related nightmare. I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for awhile. I thought I would maybe journal about my dream, but realized that my laptop was in the sitting room.

I could hear Sherlock quietly playing his violin, so I knew he was up and I wouldn't disturb him by going to get my computer.

As I came down the stairs the violin went quiet. I came into the sitting room and Sherlock was waiting on the couch, he evidently heard me coming down.

"Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet."

I shook my head. "No, not you. Afghanistan."

"Ah." He watched me get my computer and sit down in my chair. I figured I would log in to my email and blog and see if there were any messages of interest. Once I had my blog pulled up my heart sank.

Sherlock was still watching me and asked, "What's wrong?"

"What are you going to do about Jessica Arnold?"

"I'm going to get her father out of the clutches of that nasty blackmailer. I'm weighing a few different strategies at the moment. I'm confident that one of the bunch will work."

"No, I mean what are you going to do about _Jessica_?"

Sherlock only looked at me questioningly.

I sighed with frustration. "The girl is SMITTEN with you. She's leaving messages for me on my blog because apparently you aren't responding to her messages anymore."

Sherlock shrugged, "Not my problem."

"Of course it's your problem, she's your client."

"Her feelings are not my problem."

I looked at him with annoyance. "So, what am I supposed to do about her posts?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you'll think of something nice to say. You're the 'ladies man', after all. Romance is not my specialty."

I suppose I am still a bit sore over the break-up with Sarah, because that statement hurt and angered me. "Might I remind you," I said through gritted teeth, "that you're speaking with someone who just recently sacrificed a romantic attachment in favor of _you_."

"Well of course you did," he drawled back. "It was really the only sensible decision to make."

My mouth fell open. "You seemed a little more - grateful - a few weeks ago."

"Oh I am grateful. But really, John, was there ever the possibility of Sarah winning out over me?"

Something about the condescending smirk on his face touched off an explosion in my chest. Before I realized fully what I was doing, I had left my chair and was standing in front of Sherlock on the couch. In fact, it could probably be described as LOOMING over him as he had to tilt his head back and up to meet my furious gaze.

"Sherlock," I said quietly but with determined emphasis, "I just want to make it clear right now that although I have placed you first in my life - that could change. Insulting Sarah isn't fair and I won't tolerate it. There would have been no shame in choosing her. And I will _not_ tolerate being treated like a simpleton, lackey, or side-kick anymore. I am not your tool, errand-boy, assistance dog, helper monkey or whatever you may be tempted to treat me as. I expect _from_ you the same respect that I _give_ you. I haven't always insisted on it before, but I am starting right now. You _are_ worth sacrificing for, but not my self-respect; that I'm going to keep and you'd best remember that."

Sherlock stared at me with wide, surprised eyes, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black instead of his usual grey. His violin slipped from his fingers and fell from his chest to his lap with a soft _plonk_. I could see his rapid pulse in his neck and hear his breath coming quickly through his slightly parted lips.

_Oops, _I thought, _I didn't think he'd scare __that__ easily!_ I backed away slightly, then sat down on the coffee table.

"It's quite simple, really. Just treat me the way you want me to treat you," I said with a small smile.

There was a silence with Sherlock continuing to stare at me, looking rather like a deer in the headlights. After a minute I started to feel a little uncomfortable.

"Geez Sherlock, what did you think I was going to do to you, anyway?" I paused, but he didn't respond aside from giving a slight shrug that looked like it was supposed to be dismissive.

"OK, well, I'll be off to bed then. Er, goodnight." I felt extremely awkward for some reason. I went over and collected my laptop and headed for the door.

As I walked out of the sitting room I heard Sherlock quietly say, "Goodnight, John."

I came upstairs and began writing this, in an attempt to figure out what this means, if anything. Why did Sherlock react like that? Was I really that physically threatening? I did stand over him, but I wasn't clenching my fists or anything. Maybe it was just unsettling for him to have to look up at me for a change, rather than the other way around.

Since I've been up here typing, I heard Sherlock go to his room and shut his door. Slightly unusual for him. I didn't hear anything for a while after that, but now he's playing his violin in his bedroom. I guess he's trying to muffle the sound more in case I'm trying to sleep. I'm trying to place the piece he is playing, because it sounds very familiar. I think it's a song, maybe from an opera? I often play a little game with myself by trying to guess Sherlock's mood from the pieces he plays. It's a little difficult for me, as I don't know many classical pieces, although I'm slowly learning as I live here.

Well, it is extremely late now, more like early morning, really, so I better go to bed and get a few hours of sleep. I guess all I can say at this point is that life with Sherlock is never dull. And that's why I don't think I would ever want to leave.

A/N: so...just for fun...here's the piece Sherlock played in his bedroom, after John confronted him on the couch: the "Habanera" aria from Carmen. :-)


End file.
